


Paint Me Black

by Luciferous_Lampadomancy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, This is literally pure angst, first person POV, have fun kiddos, if you dont want to cry then walk away slowly, reaper au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luciferous_Lampadomancy/pseuds/Luciferous_Lampadomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows that the reaper was always the one who chooses when and how someone dies, but what happens, when the reaper himself does?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint Me Black

**Author's Note:**

> So I found an AU on tumblr, and since my mind likes to work in the most horrible ways, here you are.

“Babe! I’m home!” The call and then the door closing behind my husband made me jump almost out of my skin. How I wish that could’ve been so, then I wouldn’t have that wretched mark.  I didn’t respond, I couldn’t.  My throat closed up, my tongue dried out. It didn’t matter that it was my husband, it didn’t matter that I knew he would never do what everyone else would. You’re conditioned to fear, conditioned to turn yourself in. That’s what they do every chance they get. Fear the mark, but always look for it, you never know when you’re next.

I’m currently bundled up in a thick duvet, my entire body covered. I’d been that way since I got up this morning. I didn’t go to work, didn’t even dare move from my bedroom. All the windows are shut, all the curtains closed, and the door was shut, locked, and bolted. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing me, I couldn’t risk it anymore. It had gotten too big, spread too far, and I knew I was doomed. Not even my husband could do anything. Not that he knew. Then again I can hear his voice now, calling my name, asking where I am. My throat is still closed, not even a whimper can make it past my sealed lips. They’re trembling, just like the rest of me when he enters the room. He's dressed in a suit, blonde hair slicked back and immaculate minus that one strand that curves across his forehead; the picture of poise even after a long day at work.

“Oh, there you are,” His voice is soothing, gentle, and the smile on his face manages to melt away some of my fear. Until of course, he took another step closer, and finally something made it past my lips; a short, tiny, fearful whimper. His smile melts into a frown, and he stops short, confusion and worry written all across his handsome features, “Babe? Are you alright?”

My eyes shut, I can’t look at him, nor can I answer. He didn’t deserve this, not when he had his whole life ahead of him. Heck, _I_ didn’t deserve this. I only just turned thirty, and I’ve had it for almost a year, I lasted this long, but that also means I’ve cheated for far too long. It was unheard of to escape fate for a year. Sure some managed a couple weeks, a month for a rare few, but a whole year? There was no way. I guess I just got lucky on placement. That’s what I chalked it up to. That, and I was meticulous, careful, and very, very cautious.

I hear a couple buttons pop, and I know he’s loosening up his shirt, it always bothered him to be stuffed into a suit, and he usually was out of it the second he was in the house. But today, today was different, “Darling? Why won’t you talk? Does your throat hurt? Are you sick?” The most I give him is a tiny, barely noticeable shake of my head.  That’s all I could manage before pulling the duvet tighter around me, completely hiding even my face from view. I knew what conclusion his mind was racing to and I hated it because it was true. He knew exactly why I was hiding, and I didn’t even have to see him to figure it out.

“Sweetie? It’s okay, you don’t have to hide…” He whispers softly, and I feel the bed dip underneath me, and suddenly an arm is across my hunched shoulders. I flinch away at the contact, fearing the worst, but it’s steady, warm, and so very comforting. Comfort, the very thing I needed right now because I was beyond terrified. His words even coaxed some of my own, and before I knew it, my sealed lips parted to allow them to come out.

“No, I have to hide… I can’t go out anymore, no one can see me.” My voice is scratchy to my own ears, weak, and tiny. I hated it, but it’s all I had to work with.

“No, Levi, no it’s okay, I promise I won’t hurt you, I _promise_.” He soothes gently, arm tightening around my shoulders, “I won’t hurt you my love… you don’t have to hide from me.” Little by little, I started to believe him. Little by little, I allowed my face to peek out from the duvet and look up at him. Little by little, I allowed him to cup my cheek and rub his thumb gently under my eyes, wiping away tears I never realized were shed. Little by little, I let him gently lift the duvet from around my body. Little by little, I trusted him again.

~

The first day I noticed it, I dismissed it. It was wrong, just a blemish, a black head that had grown a bit too big for my liking. It was easy enough to cover. I just had to make sure I wore pants at all times. When things got intimate with the husband, it was simple enough to just cover it over with some foundation. Soon enough, it started to grow a bit, and one morning I tried to cut it out, get rid of it before it spread, before it got too big. I muffled myself with a mouthful of a towel, and dug with the knife until all I saw was red. By the time I stanched the blood, and the scab formed, it was as black as ever, and a bit larger than before. Almost like it could sense I was trying to get rid of it.

By week two, I knew I couldn’t just dismiss it anymore. It started looking like a rather large birthmark, and was starting to take shape. I wasn’t sure what shape exactly, but it wasn’t exactly circular, nor was it a blob. Foundation to cover it became a daily routine every morning before my husband woke up. I started wearing pants to bed as well, complaining of being colder than usual, when in reality I would always wake up a ball of sweat. Yet another incentive to wake up first.

By the first month, I refused to get intimate any longer, much to my husband’s displeasure. He didn’t push though, noticing that I was becoming more reserved. I refused to go out unless it was for work, and refused to have anyone over. I was too afraid they’d see it through the pants. It had started taking its true shape, a skull. It was almost like a tattoo, covering the entire outside of my left thigh. At one point I tried to burn it off, heated up a frying pan big enough, and then pressed it to the mark. My scream must’ve pierced through every wall in the building, but by the time he came home, I had it dressed in bandages and gave a convincing story of how I accidentally spilled boiling water and it hit my thigh on the way to the floor while making pasta for dinner. He bought it, and I never let him change the bandages, also to his displeasure.

Somehow for the next several months, I managed to gather up the courage every morning to keep going out to work, but no matter the weather, I was always dressed in black pants, and a black long sleeved shirt. Everyone at the office teased me, told me I got stuck in my “goth” phase again; I just laughed and played along. It kept them from getting suspicious right? Meanwhile, I just kept watching the mark spread. It changed shape too, from a simple skull, to a full silhouette of the reaper covering my entire left side. The top of the black hood came up to just above my chest, but just below the top of my shoulder, and the robes went down and encircled my entire left leg to my ankle. The right arm held out a scythe that cut diagonally across my chest, and his left arm became my own, and it was getting harder and harder to make sure the cuffs covered all of the black. I managed it, somehow, and thankfully it didn’t grow any larger for the next couple months. That is, until today.

 ~

His smile never wavers, not once. I was left before him, shivering in just my underwear and the reaper on full display, but still he smiles like he doesn’t see it, like it isn’t even there. He picks me up, bundles me up in his lap, and shushes my whimpering with soft reassurances. For once, I didn’t feel like I had to worry. For once in the past year, I wasn’t plagued by fear of _it_ getting seen. I didn’t have to worry, and it was a blessing. I had the mark of death, the mark that allowed people in the streets to get murdered with no consequences, the black mark that showed to the world that it was your time to die. The reaper that used to claim the lives himself was long dead, and in his place, he left his mark on those when it was their turn to die.

But I had cheated him, for almost a full year. I had cheated death himself, and wore him on my body for several months along with the fear that accompanied it. And yet, now, in my husband’s arms, I’m at peace. I managed to not only be the first one to survive this long with the mark of death, but I’m also the first one to be welcomed into someone’s arms rather than killed on sight. Of course, because I was in such bliss, I let down my guard.

Granted I had let it down the second I felt his hand on my cheek. I didn’t notice the glint of metal on the sheets beside him. Not that I could’ve when all I knew was that I was safe in his arms, just like I was with every thunderstorm, just like I was after every nightmare. His arms were where no harm could come to me, and I let my eyes slip closed; let my cheek nuzzle against his collarbone.

 “That’s it my sweet, just relax and close your eyes, you’re safe with me. I promise I won’t let it hurt, okay? Just relax, and listen to me.” He kept talking, but it all mainly just faded into incoherent murmurs in my mind. I could’ve sworn I heard his breath hitch, heard his voice crack, and it was weird because I had never heard it do that before. I felt warmth running down my neck too, down my chest, and just, everywhere. I kept my eyes closed though, kept straining to listen to his voice; it was soothing like nothing else was. I don’t know when exactly I couldn’t feel anymore, but I do know the last thing I _could_  feel was tears that weren’t my own splashing against my cheeks, and the last thing I heard was surprisingly coherent.

_“I’m sorry… I love you, Levi.”_

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me on tumblr at [jaegerhugs](http://jaegerhugs.tumblr.com/). If you liked it, let me know! Drop a kudos and/or a comment if you so wish-scream at me please because I need to be screamed at for coming up with this.


End file.
